


The Case of the Murdered Magician

by LeakingLlama, salem_student



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Margo Hanson, Bisexual John Watson, Bisexual Quentin Coldwater, But Obvious, Case Fic, Crossover, Drug Addict Sherlock, Drug Use, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Getting Together, Humor, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Scheming, Shameless Smut, Sharing a Bed, The Boys are All Clueless, There really is no reason for this except more tall curly boys, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, don't tell my wips i'm here, queliot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29209383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeakingLlama/pseuds/LeakingLlama, https://archiveofourown.org/users/salem_student/pseuds/salem_student
Summary: Magic is not unlikely to murder you. Sherlock Holmes is not unlikely to solve it when it does.Someone has been killed on the grounds of Brakebills University, which is not entirely uncommon occurrence. So why would Dean Fogg summon the World's Only Consulting Detective to crack the case? Not everything is as it seems in the Magical world - but could this be more mundane than expected? How will Sherlock be able to function in a world that does not follow his rules?And side plot...love story? Hey, with all that adrenaline pumping, smut is bound to happen.
Relationships: Brian/Nigel (The Magicians), Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	1. Authorized Magic

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually co-created by me and Salem_Student, BUT we have some settings to work through to get that done properly, so for now, it's a "gift". Truly, thought, it's a collaborative baby.
> 
> This is becoming a beast, so be forewarned. Mainly, we just need to see a lot of banter between these characters, but also, plot happens. There is no Beast here, and we haven't been to Fillory yet. It takes place fairly early in the Sherlock-John pairing and First Year for Quentin at Brakebills, at least half way through the year.
> 
> See End Notes regarding Archive Warnings.

“I’m sorry. _What?_ ” John quirked his head and raised his eyebrows, peering at Mycroft over invisible spectacles in that oh-so-John-like way that says _tread lightly with your reply, because I’m pretty close to walking out of here._

Mycroft was unfazed. “I said, I have a case for you. It requires you to go to America and no, you don’t have a choice in the matter,” he said, flicking his glare toward a quite broody-looking Sherlock, who narrowed his eyes at him pensively. One could almost see the cogs of deduction working away behind that calculating stare.

In fact, it was that very stare which told Mycroft he wouldn’t have to do any more convincing. Sherlock always squinted his eyes like that when he was trying to hide sentiment. Sherlock loved to spout off about how _sentiment_ was the bane of his very existence, but he and Mycroft both knew that little brother was the sensitive one in the family. His eyes never could contain the glimmers of feeling that forced their way into Sherlock’s consciousness at the most inopportune times. It was almost reflexive of him to narrow his gaze and don a pensive, if not slightly defiant expression in order to hide all the emotions that flooded his countenance when he realized that he was defeated.

And he was, in fact, defeated. By now, within the span of about 5.7 seconds since Mycroft informed them of their new case, Sherlock would have deduced the sensitive and important nature of this “request” and come to the logical conclusion that it was anything _but_. No, Mycroft hadn’t come to _ask_. He was here as a courtesy – to save the Baker Street Boys the embarrassment of a mandatory government escort. Mycroft smirked triumphantly at his brother’s telling expression and turned to address Sherlock full-on. “Isn’t that quite right, brother mine?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stormed off into his room. John could hear drawers being opened and slammed shut; clothing being flung onto the bed and into a suitcase. John sank down into his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose as Sherlock waged his private tantrum in the other room. Apparently, they were going to America.

* * *

Quentin scowled as he sat on the edge of the wall, hands planted next to his bony hips, legs swinging gently, slouched over – an eye roll personified. He was clearly not happy to be here, and his frustration seemed to grow exponentially as he and Eliot sat there in silence, Quentin’s overactive brain supplying all the necessary ammunition to fuel his irritation as the seconds ticked by. “Why the hell would Fogg put me on the ‘welcome committee’?” He addressed his companion, not really asking for an answer, but mostly just complaining about his lot in life. “ _You_ , I get, but _me_ …”

“Maybe he’s trying to get you to come out of your shell, little Q,” Eliot drawled with a subtle wink.

Quentin flipped him off. “He’s trying to torture me…”

Eliot leaned back on his elbow and took a drag from his cigarette. Quentin was getting a definitive feeling of déjà vu as he looked back at the beautiful specimen of a man just over his shoulder. That memory of Eliot Waugh, in all his lanky, sexy glory, spread out and posing on this very Brakebills sign began to seep into his consciousness, stirring up the butterflies in his stomach and directing his blood flow to his cheeks and…other notable areas he was currently trying to ignore. _Fuck, not now, Quentin. We can’t meet our overseas guests with a hard-on. Get it together._

Quentin chuckled quietly to himself.

“What?” asked Eliot, lifting his head curiously and squinting his eyes at Quentin.

Quentin shook his head and gave a bashful smile. “Why do you always have to be so extra?” He looked away sheepishly, trying to hide his broadening smile from Eliot.

Eliot shot Quentin an exaggerated _I’m-appalled_ look and gasped dramatically. “Moi?”

Quentin narrowed his eyes and sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth in a smirk. “Look at you! All stretched out on the sign, fucking _posing_ like a goddamn…model or something. Waiting to make an impression…”

“I _am_ trying to make an impression,” Eliot huffed as he slinked back down to his elbows.

Quentin shot him a bit of side-eye as he half-mumbled into the ground beneath his feet, “What, the impression that you want everyone to want to fuck you…”

Eliot’s head shot back up. A predatory smile glided over his features. “Why, is that the impression I give you, Q? Does _everyone_ want to fuck me when I look like this?”

Quentin’s eyes panicked as he opened his mouth to try and form some sort of retort, but as luck would have it, he was saved by the rustling of hedges across the lawn. “Uh…l-looks like they’re here, El,” Quentin sputtered out. Eliot assumed his usual position as Quentin straightened up and squinted to catch a glimpse of the two figures walking toward them as they stepped cautiously out of the hedges and onto the grounds of Brakebills.

* * *

“Are you going to tell us anything about this case at all, or am I going to have to deduce the question as well as the answer?” Sherlock spat the words defiantly at his brother, clearly already fed up with his secrecy and drama. The trio had traveled across an ocean, and thus far, all Sherlock had been able to get out of his brother were terse words and short phrases such as, “New York”, “murder”, and “far above your security clearance level.” Sherlock had resorted to retreating into his mind palace, if only to pass the time and avoid decking Mycroft. However, now that they were back on terra firma, as it were, and apparently in a car _on the way directly to their destination_ , Sherlock was becoming quite insistent on knowing exactly what they were in for.

Sherlock looked over at John, who was, as ever, watching the exchange between him and his brother with piqued interest that bordered just on the complacent side of curiosity. “How can you just sit there, John, just going along for the ride day in and day out, playing apparently no active role in your life whatsoever?” John furrowed his brow gently, trying to ignore the sting of Sherlock’s remarks. He was angry, and John knew it. Not that he would ever say anything he didn’t actually mean, but John knew that being in this state of mind often led to a harsher delivery of the “facts”, as Sherlock would put it. John sniffed and quirked an eyebrow at him, cautious to curb as much snark as possible.

“Isn’t that what I keep you around for then?” he snipped, flatly, scanning his surroundings as they headed into the city.

Sherlock tilted his head and gave John an irritated look. John raised his eyebrows innocently and flashed him a tight-lipped smile.

 _The brat,_ thought Sherlock.

 _Two can play at that game, luv,_ thought John. _Luv…now where did that come from…_ John shook the thought from his head and focused on the road ahead.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance and glared at Mycroft, who, reluctantly, figured it was about time he debriefed them, seeing as how they were nearly there already. He rolled up the privacy barrier, sectioning off the back of the car so they could discuss matters without prying ears.

“I can give you the overall gist of what is going on,” Mycroft began, “The Dean will fill you both in on the rest…”

“Dean?” asked John.

“Yes,” continued Mycroft. “The murder in question occurred on the grounds of a very prestigious private school in upstate New York-”

“Which school,” snapped Sherlock. “I have looked up all the universities in this part of the state and have heard nothing of a murder or investigation…”

“You looked them all up?” Asked John.

“Yes, of course I did,” replied Sherlock, with that haughty air of his that John thought was equal parts insulting and exciting. “I deduced we were going to be either dealing with a school or some other private institution. Based on the level of clearance, I knew this would have something to do with a high-ranking government entity of some sort, though were it entirely government-related the governing body would have insisted on transporting us directly with their own security. There’s not a chance they would have left this up to Mycroft and his own resources, however trustworthy. Therefore, I could only assume that the case involved someone involved with the government though not directly within its jurisprudence – a relative, perhaps, son, daughter, probably a student attending a private institution, whether one of higher learning or, less likely, but potentially, a resident of some sort of mental health or rehabilitation center. After having narrowed it down to these options it was fairly easy to conduct an exhaustive search of institutions in the area so I would _at least_ have an idea of where we were going.”

“And…you did that…just now, in the ten minutes that we’ve been driving…”

“Naturally, John, do try to keep up,” Sherlock hummed, dismissively.

“Yeah, naturally,” echoed John, slightly admonished but nevertheless still impressed.

He almost missed the sly smirk flit across Sherlock’s lips before Mycroft continued. “Yes, well, this university is…rather, _selective_ in its students. I doubt you would have come across it at all in your search. It’s quite off the map, as it were. In fact, the only people who do know about its existence are the students, alumni, and family members thereof. The fact that you have been authorized to have any knowledge about its existence at all is…unprecedented.”

Sherlock tried not to look surprised, but was intrigued nonetheless. “Interesting,” he mused, pressing his fingertips together and lying them gently on his lips, pensively. “Why?” he asked.

Mycroft took a deep breath before proceeding. “Because the school is part of a much larger concern – a very secretive one that, if word got out, would prove very dangerous, even fatal to a number of individuals in attendance. Indeed, one might say that the very fabric of our entire world could be undone.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, boring directly into his brother’s countenance with resolute scrutiny. John bounced his attention back and forth from brother to brother, mouth slightly agape, anxiously awaiting further elaboration.

“What’s more,” Mycroft continued, “you won’t like it one bit, baby brother. It goes against all your logical sensibilities and challenges that very laws of physics upon which you base your entire knowledge bank.”

“Oh come now, Mycroft, there’s no need for the dramatic-”

“I am _not_ being dramatic, dear brother. On the contrary, I am trying to soften the blow, as it were. Of course, it’s not that this concept necessarily _defies_ science, _per se_ , but more that it operates on a different set of rules and theories than you’re used to dealing with. Trust me, you _will_ get used to it – the metamaths, the _science_ of it all – but it will be quite an adjustment.”

Sherlock tried not to get too defensive at that. The idea that his older brother was more knowledgeable in this area – which Sherlock himself apparently knew absolutely nothing about – burned his sense of pride deeply. He tried not to let it show how wounded he had felt at that, and focused on the task at hand. “Well,” he croaked, finally, feigning boredom, “go on with it then. What exactly is it that we are dealing with here?”

Mycroft quirked the corner of his mouth in a smug, sideways smirk which he knew bordered on melodrama but, honestly, who was he kidding, he never could resist a touch of theatrics.

“Magic,” he whispered.

* * *

The car rolled to a stop on a moderately crowded street beside a delicatessen. Mycroft exited first, followed by a very confused-looking Sherlock and a downright flabbergasted John. Mycroft motioned for the driver to leave and circle the block. He began to wander slowly along the street, looking around cautiously as John and Sherlock followed closely behind.

“So,” John began, as though he were completing a thought begun in his head, “when you say, ‘Magic,’ you mean…actual…you know, _hocus pocus, make people fly and all that…_ that kind of, erm, thing?”

“Well, flying would be…extraordinarily difficult I imagine, though levitation is quite common,” Mycroft explained, keeping his voice down. “You will come to find out that it is not exactly an endless supply of possibilities. There are laws at work, theories at play, and a simply maddening amount of limitations, circumstances that must be considered, incantations, hand movements, and the like. It isn’t like one of those ridiculous “SyFy” films or other such nonsense. The magic taught at Brakebills is very real, very concrete. It follows a set of discernable rules, which should please you, Sherlock. I’ve no doubt you’ll delight in deducing the living _hell_ out of all the goings-on surrounding you at the school. Do try not to become too _giddy_ with it, if you please. We do have somewhat of an international reputation to uphold.

“Then why send me?” Sherlock quipped.

Mycroft stopped in his tracks. “Because, brother dear, your ‘international reputation’, as it were, precedes you. I was contacted due to my…affiliation with some of the higher ranking parties involved. The job required someone knowledgeable, able to understand the science behind the magic with very little time to study it. It seems the staff at Brakebills, despite all their exhaustive efforts to maintain self-sufficiency and autonomy, have found themselves quite out of their depth with this one. This will all be explained to you, of course, by Dean Fogg once you arrive.”

“Uh huh,” answered John. “So um, if this place is such a well-kept secret, how, uh…how do we…get in then?”

Mycroft directed his gaze toward a rusty gate, chained shut, apparently fencing in some forgotten, overgrown alleyway. “Just through there,” said Mycroft. I’m afraid you’ll have to hop over. Fogg does like to take precaution with who can and cannot wander through the portals. I’m not coming with you, I’m afraid. Fogg and I can only tolerate each other in small doses. I think he’d just as soon imagine that I’m not involved.

With that, he nodded toward the gate and watched as the two men climbed over the rusty iron bars, then disappeared on the other side.

* * *

As John and Sherlock leapt off the gate onto the ground below, they stood up slowly, blinking rapidly, trying to make sense of…well, their senses. Rather than a dark, musty back alley full of overgrowth and litter, they found themselves in a lush and beautiful garden of sorts. A far cry from the damp and dirty New York street they had just left, this space was bright and sunny, a small, if slightly overgrown garden path bordered on either side by tall hedges. As they pressed forward, the foliage grew a bit denser, and they continued to push their way through a few hanging branches, finally squeezing their way out through a pair of close-set shrubs and out onto a well-manicured lawn. As their eyes adjusted to the sunlight, they crossed the open lawn and headed toward a large set of buildings. Directly in front of them stood a wall, with “Brakebills University” displayed proudly across its length. Perched atop this wall was a tall, slender man, lying across the sign, smoking a cigarette. The man glanced over at them at they approached, seemingly unimpressed and not in too much of a hurry to welcome them. One of his legs was stretched out in front of him (and good God, what miles of leg there was), the other bent up, knee pointing to the sky, giving him an absolutely gorgeous silhouette. He was accompanied, apparently, by a smaller man, perched unceremoniously next to Mr.-Daddy-Long-Legs. He was short and petite in stature, not unlike John, but about a decade younger and with long, shoulder-length hair that fell in a curtain across his face.

As they approached the pair, the tall man sat up, flicked his cigarette, and glanced down at a card in his hand. He looked up at Sherlock and John, then down at the card again, reading what was written on it. “ _Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?”_ His voice seemed almost disgusted, as if he couldn’t believe those were their actual names. The shorter man shot the taller man a judgmental look, rolled his eyes, then hopped down off of his spot on the wall to stand opposite of John. The tall one did the same and stopped just in front of Sherlock. The pairs regarded each other carefully, none of them voicing the obvious similarities in stature and appearance. The taller man spoke first.

“I’m Eliot,” he said, holding Sherlock’s gaze for a moment before looking down at John. “You’re late.”

“Nope,” Sherlock interjected.

Eliot blinked in surprise. “Excuse me,” he queried, brows knitting together in confusion.

“No, we are not ‘late,’” explained Sherlock. “Our flight came in precisely on time, the baggage claim was exceptionally expedient, the driver arrived immediately after our arrival at the airport and drove us directly to our destination through very little traffic - less traffic, in fact, than one would normally expect at this time of the day, so in actuality, _Eliot_ , we arrived in record time. The fact that Dean Fogg either does not have any concept of how time works, or that he sets unrealistic expectations purposely in order to put newcomers at a perceived disadvantage through psychological manipulation does _not_ reflect poorly on my punctuality in any way. We have, in fact, arrived earlier than anticipated, so if you don’t mind, let’s get on with it, shall we?”

Quentin stared at him with his jaw on the floor for a moment before huffing out an impressed chuckle. Eliot shot him an admonishing glare before donning his carefully-constructed mask of arrogance once again and leading the group toward the main building. “This way, then,” he said as he motioned for the party to follow. Sherlock strode right behind him, with John and Quentin following closely behind. Quentin threw a questioning look over at John.

“Yeah,” John smiled, “He’s always like that.”


	2. Deductions and Drama Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crime scenes, postmortems, a bit of jealousy perhaps? Sherlock shows off, because of course he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is largely focused on Sherlock, but don't worry, the next one will focus on TM characters. We strive for equal air time here as much as possible :)
> 
> Non-graphic depictions of some postmortem stuff. A bit of crime scene description. For those concerned.

Eliot led them through the grounds – which, Sherlock noted, were absolutely beautiful – and into one of the main buildings. They traveled down a corridor of what appeared to be classrooms and to a closed door with the name “Dean Henry Fogg” on it. He knocked twice.

“Come in,” came a deep voice within. The four entered the office, which was quite a bit larger than it had seemed initially. A wooden desk sat atop a large ornate rug in the center of the room, backed by a beautiful brick fireplace. An unnecessary number of globes littered the office on stands of various heights. To the left, two large glass doors immersed the room in a stream of hazy light that flooded in from a balcony, past a small table and chair ,set for two, that appeared mostly unused. The entrance to the room was flanked by overflowing bookshelves, and off to the right stood a small, well-stocked bar.

The Dean stood and offered his hand to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, I presume,” he said, his voice official, yet respectful. Sherlock glanced down and  gave Fogg’s hand an obligatory shake.

“Dean Fogg,” he replied.

“Henry. Please,” answered Fogg. “And you must be Dr. Watson,” he directed an outstretched hand toward John. John gave a tight-lipped smile and returned the gesture with a firm handshake. ‘Won’t you have a seat, gentlemen?” Henry gestured to a pair of dark leather chairs facing his desk as he settled himself back down into his own. Eliot raised his eyebrows questioningly at Henry. Sherlock deduced the silent question of permission as Henry nodded toward the bar. With a quick head nod, Eliot gestured for Quentin to follow him as he walked briskly over to the bar. He poured a generous libation for himself and Quentin as they looked on curiously at the newcomers.

Henry cleared his throat. “I would bore you both with flattery, however, I get the feeling that would be more of an insult to you than anything else,” he began.

Sherlock trailed his gaze sideways, “Yes, well, John does seem to hold the monopoly on random interjections of ‘brilliant’, ‘amazing’, ‘incredible’ and so on. I hardly doubt you would be able to compete with him on that point.” John responded with a bit of side-eye and an unimpressed smirk. Sherlock heard Eliot stifle a snort as Henry continued.

“Quite right. So, allow me to get straight to the point.” Henry shifted in his seat.

“You do realize,” Sherlock interrupted, “that beginning with unnecessary sentences actually delays you getting straight to the point…”

John kicked Sherlock’s ankle under the desk. Sherlock snapped his head over to John as they had a brief conversation with their eyebrows, ending in an exasperated huff from Sherlock as he waved carelessly for Fogg to continue. 

“I’m not sure what your brother has told you about the situation. A student has been killed on the grounds of the school. Normally, as the events that occur on campus tend to be magical rather than mundane in nature; we do like to handle these situations internally. Not only because of the potential for exposure, but also because, well, quite frankly these situations usually require a certain… _ skillset _ that is…proprietary in nature. To be blunt, law enforcement would be miles out of their depth here.”

“Then why call us?” Sherlock sounded indifferent, as if he didn’t really want an answer but knew he had to get an explanation, if only for John’s benefit. “If this is a magical affair, why bother with… _ mundane _ detectives?” His nose wrinkled at the word ‘mundane’ as if it personally offended him; which it probably did. 

“Because, Mr. Holmes, this was not a magical murder,” explained Henry.

“And that makes it…worse?” John cocked his head, trying to piece it together.

“Of course not, John,” Sherlock huffed, “but what it does is-”

“-What it does, Dr. Watson,” boomed Fogg, interjecting over what would have undoubtedly been an impressive string of deductions, “is put us in a very… _ uncomfortable _ position.”

Sherlock froze, unable to process that fact that someone had simply dismissed him like…well, the way he would talk to Anderson or Donovan when they were trying to say something stupid. The  _ nerve… _

Fogg continued, “The families who have students at this university understand that magic can be, and often is, extremely dangerous, with the potential to kill you without a moment’s notice. They sign a waiver when they enroll, in fact. However, what they do  _ not _ expect, is for someone – apparently  _ without _ the use of magic – to gain access to the premises, murder someone, and get away with it. Not to mention that someone was perfectly capable of defending himself using magic. This simply should not have happened. It has…shaken us. All of us.”

An uneasy silence fell on the room for a matter of seconds. Quentin and Eliot shifted uncomfortably, even anxiously, in the corner of the room. Sherlock observed them both, calculating, deducing…words seeming to float out toward him at the edge of his mind palace from clues and observations –  _ trauma, coffee for breakfast, eyeliner, depression, alcoholic, fear, attraction, addict, nerd, farm boy?, clingy, fear, anxiety, queer, caretaker, fear, dom, sub, switch, fear, left-handed, armor, fear, love, escapist, fear, drama queen, suicidal, fear, daddy issues, fear, fear…fear… _

Sherlock’s head snapped over to Fogg.  _ Anxious, alcoholic, networker, imposter syndrome, meddler, caretaker, regret, liar, excellent stamina, protector, traitor, lost, fear…fear… _

Whatever this was, it was more than Henry was letting on. Whatever had happened, it had terrified the entire school. Staff, students, parents…for a school supposedly used to magical injuries and death…intriguing.

“Interesting…” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” asked Henry.

Sherlock snapped himself back into the room with a sharp inhale. “Nothing,” he chirped as he suddenly stood up, his chair legs screeching on the floor as it slid back. “So, where’s the body? Where did it happen? When? Circumstances? Ugh, too slow; tell me as we’re on our way,” John nearly jumped up out of his seat, followed by the others as Sherlock headed briskly toward the door. He held the door open, gesturing impatiently for Fogg to lead the way.

Fogg looked perplexed, frozen for half a second before…

“Well, come now, Henry, I really don’t have all day. The Game is on, you’ve asked for my help, do be quick about it.” Sherlock couldn’t resist asserting a  _ little _ dominance in light of the earlier interruption, glaring at Henry with his signature  _ stop being an idiot _ look. Eliot appeared impressed. Quentin’s jaw popped open on a slightly breathy inhalation.  _ Definitely a sub _ . John swallowed thickly.

Fogg recovered with as much dignity as he could. “Which one first?”

“The body,” Sherlock replied before Henry could finish asking the question. “Then the crime scene.” Sherlock fairly vibrated with excitement disguised as irritation (John, of course, could tell the difference) as Henry led them out of the office at a quick, yet insufficient pace for Sherlock’s liking. John and Sherlock followed closely behind, with Eliot and Quentin bringing up the rear, tentatively. John smirked knowingly at Sherlock, his enthusiasm contagious as ever. Sherlock shot him a shy smile, ever-so-briefly, before turning it into a haughty, “Come along, John, you know you love it just as much.”

“Never said I didn’t,” John answered with a grin. Sherlock flipped up the collar of his Belstaff and glanced sideways at John.

Eliot leaned over to Quentin as they tried to keep the pace. “Fucking drama queen,” he muttered.

Sherlock turned his head sharply toward Eliot, then bowed his head slightly, maintaining intense eye contact. “Kettle,” he noted, as if making a formal introduction. Quentin snorted.

* * *

The party followed Fogg through the corridors down to the basement floor of the building. They walked through what appeared to be a storage room before coming to a heavy door. Fogg knocked forcefully on the door, evidently so that it would be heard from the inside through the thick metal. It was answered after a few seconds by a small woman with short curly hair. She was wearing a lab coat that had faint marks of blood on it. She took in the newcomers briefly with scrutinizing eyes before glancing back up to Fogg with a sigh. “Henry,” she said in greeting.

“Professor Lipson,” answered Fogg.

“I take it you’re here to see the body,” she said, pleasantly.

“If you please,” replied Fogg. Lipson stood to the side as she gestured for the group to enter the room. “This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson,” continued Fogg, indicating each man in turn, “gentlemen this is Professor Lipson. She is our head physician here at Brakebills, a Master Magician, and I can assure you, quite an expert in the field. She has taken charge of examination of the body since the incident.”

Sherlock looked her over briefly, allowing his brain to deduce of its own accord.  _ Right-handed, hasn’t slept in 24 – no – 36 hours, emotionally invested, drug use, genius… _

Lipson met his eyes for a moment, conveying strength and curiosity simultaneously. “This way,” she uttered, turning sharply to lead them to a table in the middle of the room, upon which their subject of interest laid. Fogg, Sherlock, and John followed her over to the body, while Quentin and Eliot shifted uneasily and hung back against the wall. Sherlock glanced back at them questioningly.

“We’ve seen enough,” explained Eliot, trying to conceal… _ something _ …what was it? Sherlock was trying to deduce…facts, he could do. Emotions didn’t come quite so effortlessly.

The body was mostly intact. A few pokes and prods here and there but it certainly didn’t look like anyone had performed a postmortem on it. Sherlock appeared confused. “You haven’t fully examined it yet?”

“Oh yes, quite thoroughly,” chirped Lipson. “Complete postmortem, both magical and mundane. Checked for magical residues, curses, hexes, and any indications of spells having been cast by the victim around the time of death. There was nothing. No magic was used, by either the victim or the attacker. Just a straight-up, good ol’ fashioned stabbing…”

“How could you have completed a postmortem? The body has barely been touched,” Sherlock interrupted.

Lipson closed her eyes for a moment. “That’s right. You’ll probably want to see for yourself, won’t you?” She let out a frustrated sigh, “Fuck,” she muttered. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I just put him back together, too,” she shook her head, irritated. Sherlock shot John a confused look.

After a moment of repositioning the body and maneuvering around the table, Lipson let out a long breath, then held her hands out over the body. She shifted her fingers in unison, complex movements that looked as though they were likely to cramp her hands up completely, yet she rolled through them effortlessly. It was, Sherlock remarked to himself, a beautiful dance. He found himself almost entranced by the lithe fingers and their maneuvers – that is, until he noticed what was happening just beneath them. The flesh of the body began to mark itself with a deep cut, slowly moving along, as if being sliced open with a scalpel, only there was no instrument in sight. The cut lengthened itself along the torso. He then noticed other lacerations tracing themselves along the body in various places. He stood, transfixed, mouth slightly open, as he watched Professor Lipson create the necessary incisions for a postmortem examination without laying a finger on the body.

As her hands ceased their complex movements, Lipson looked up to see John and Sherlock staring at the body in awe. John’s jaw had dropped open, his eyebrows raised - a look Sherlock had become quite familiar with. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and calculating, his genius brain trying to piece it together. She suppressed a small smile. She always did love to see the expressions on people’s faces when they discovered magic, though she’d never admit it to anyone else.

“Incredible,” breathed John, still unable to move.

“Indeed,” agreed Sherlock, his mind racing, trying to fit the events that had just transpired into the boxes he had created to help him make sense of the world. But they wouldn’t fit into any of those boxes. Sherlock pouted at the realization.

Lipson looked back and forth between them for a moment before growing impatient. “You ready?” she asked, jolting Sherlock out of his daze and back into the room. He shook his head slightly, then turned his attention to the task at hand.

“Yes,” he said, feigning the sort of professional indifference he’d grown accustomed to using as armor, “proceed.”

Lipson narrowed her eyes for just a beat before mirroring his tone and directing his attention to the incision stemming from the knife wound. “Ok, so if you take a look here…”

* * *

Once Sherlock had inspected the body to his satisfaction, he insisted that the group move on to the crime scene. They arrived at a spot near a fountain that was sectioned off by yellow caution tape. Henry explained where the body was found, the position it had been found in, and when they had discovered the crime. Sherlock surveyed his surroundings, inspecting the grass that was beneath the body and around it, glancing over the grounds surrounding them, fluttering about the scene wordlessly and his brain began to categorize, analyze, and evaluate.

“As you can see,” concluded Fogg, “there’s not much to go on.”

John saw Sherlock give a slight smirk before composing himself. “No,” he said, “not much to go on at all…”  _ Oh god _ , thought John,  _ here it comes _ , “nothing except the fact that the killer was clearly someone the victim knew on a personal level, was right-handed and much shorter than he was, and had been out here waiting for him for quite some time before he arrived, judging by the grass that’s been rubbed relentlessly into the soil just beneath the bench. No one has been here since this occurred, so we can deduce that whoever was waiting for the victim was growing impatient, fidgeting nervously perhaps, and grinding their feet into the ground as they waited. Now this person could have just happened to be here waiting for him to come along, but it seems that would raise some suspicions, especially if it were someone who wasn’t normally supposed to be on the grounds, much less at night, which is when the stabbing clearly occurred, so obviously this person had concocted another very legitimate reason for being here so as not to appear out of place. Likely the killer had arranged a meeting with the victim, perhaps one that was a regular occurrence, one with a certain flexibility in meeting times, depending on when the other person was able to get away. Obviously the killer had established good rapport with the victim, so that he would not have ever imagined the violent betrayal that was to come. The killer also had at least some rudimentary knowledge of human anatomy. The blow was fatal nearly instantly, hitting the victim’s heart, thus preventing him from using any sort of magical retaliation…”

“Sorry,” Eliot chimed in, “how do you know the killer was shorter…”

Sherlock sighed in irritation as he turned to face Eliot. “The angle of the wound. The knife went in upward at an angle, which, in itself might not mean anything, as the killer could have easily stabbed the victim underhand from below. However, the wound indicated that the knife was twisted. The killer, we can deduce, was right-handed based on the location of the wound. It would have been nearly impossible for a left-handed person to stab the victim across his body to reach the left side of his chest. Now the knife was rotated slightly to the killer’s left as it entered and was removed. Had the killer stabbed upward, the natural inclination would be for the wrist to turn outward as it was removed – turning inward would have been awkward at best, if not impossible given the close proximity of the attack. This leads us to conclude that the knife was plunged into the victim overhand,” Sherlock demonstrated with his own hand motions, using John as his victim, “using the natural tendency of the wrist to turn inward as it was plunged in and then quickly removed. An overhand blow from anyone near the victim’s height would have been angled downward,  _ but _ as the angle was clearly directed upward, the killer  _ must _ have been approximately 8-10 inches shorter than the victim.”

Four stunned faces stared at Sherlock for an awkward few seconds as the group took in all the information that had just been vomited at them from the depths of Sherlock’s mind palace.

“Fuck,” breathed Quentin, blinking rapidly, unable to take his eyes off the man. Eliot furrowed his brow at Q. He shoved down the jealous monster that threatened to rear up into his chest as he cleared his throat.

“Uh,” stammered Eliot, “Th-that…makes a lot of sense,” he replied, confusion in his eyes as he glanced to the side to process.

“Of course it does,” confirmed Sherlock, “now what I’ll need to know is who has access to the grounds, a list of acquaintances of the victim, professors, friends, lovers, relatives, et cetera. Where are we to be staying while we’re here? I need to process.”

Fogg took a step forward. “Most of our housing units are full at the moment, but we will be able to make some room for you in the Physical Kids’ Cottage, so to speak. Quentin and Eliot will show you where it’s located… _ at the moment _ …” Fogg shot a stern look at Eliot, who put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“Hey, Margo and I were first years, we had no idea that charm would stick! ”

Fogg huffed out a dismissal and waved them on. “I’ll get you your lists,” he stated, directing his attention back to Sherlock. “In the meantime, go ahead and settle in. Please let me know if you need anything. Though, the Physical Students should be able to help you with most of your requests.” With that, he turned and headed back toward the main building.

Sherlock and John looked over at Eliot questioningly. “ _ At the moment? _ ” he inquired.

Eliot looked at Quentin with a smirk as he began to lead them through the grounds toward The Cottage. “Margo and I charmed The Cottage to relocate itself every year as a prank for the new first years. Apparently it…keeps relocating every so often so…sorry.”

John leaned forward as they walked, “Erm…who’s Margo?” he asked.

Eliot looked back at him over his shoulder with a broad, mischievous smile as he looked him up and down with a predatory look. “Oh…you’ll find out…” he said with a wink. Quentin rolled his eyes and shook his head.  _ Fucking drama queen is right. _

A flutter of jealous butterflies appeared in Sherlock’s stomach as he narrowed his eyes and quickened his pace, dropping into the gap between John and Eliot protectively as they approached their destination.

Eliot stepped onto the porch of a large brick building that looked quite like…well, like a homey cottage, albeit quite a bit larger than a single family home. “Here we are,” he announced with a dramatic flourish. “The Cottage, home to the illustrious Physical Kids, clearly the best discipline on campus.” He stopped in front of the door and performed a quick sequence of hand movements which resulted in the large front door swinging itself open. He gestured for them to enter, posing in a dramatic bow. “Welcome home, boys.”

**Author's Note:**

> I put a major character death warning but it isn't actually any of the main characters from the shows. Mainly, we used the names of some of the alternate characters from The Magicians season 4, but they aren't really the same characters. Still, it is a murder mystery so SOMEONE has to die.


End file.
